Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [42]
After lunch I left the women and children and drove the five miles or so into Guildford, a town with many more old and fine buildings than I remember before. I went to what must be one of the largest, and certainly the most haphazard second-hand bookshop in the country -Thorp’s. It took me nearly one and a half hours to cast a very cursory glance over about 70% of their stock – shelved in a variety of different little rooms and one big timber-roofed chamber, in such a way that makes one suspect that the disorder is all part of a careful filing system, which takes years to appreciate fully.
I bought a handsome volume of Bulldog Drummond stories. I felt I ought to have an example of this unique genre – the public school, ultra-xenophobic spy story. It makes great reading – everyone is always ‘fixing’ each other ‘with piercing stares’.
At supper I got into conversation with our hosts about the Oz sentences. Clearly, and rather disturbingly, their minds were made up – Oz and its editors were evils that had been judged guilty, and let it be a lesson to all others who are threatening the moral fibre of our society, and the most alarming thing was that they did not have a clue as to what Oz Schoolkids issue was. They automatically thought it was a collection of obscene material which the editors had written to try and corrupt schoolchildren. They were quite taken aback when I told them that the issue had been written by schoolkids – and that the jury had acquitted them of the charge of corrupting children’s morals. They had complete misconceptions about hippies – J said he wouldn’t dare get into an argument in case they set on him. They talked about ‘London’ as a descriptive term for all rather suspect, critical, left-wing, un-British opinions, and implied that it was here in Surrey that the ‘English way of life’ would be defended to the bitter end.
The four-month gap at this point is the result of that diarist’s nightmare, the loss of an almost complete notebook. According to family folklore it was dumped in the rubbish bin by my son William who, at the age of one, had developed a great interest in putting things inside other things. Whatever happened, it never reappeared. Momentarily bereft, I felt like giving up the diary altogether but the loss made me realise that it had become such a part of my life, that it was inconceivable to jettison it. If anything, I compensated by writing more.
Friday, December 24th
Yesterday I found a smart gallery in Crawford Street and ended up spending £45 on a primitive of two cows painted by someone called Beazley in 1881. Actually I didn’t know it was a primitive – the cows looked perfectly normal to me – but it’s a very in-word in art circles at the moment, and I think it means that commercially I’m onto a good thing. Be that as it may, I’m glad to have the painting, because at last I’ve found something that I really enjoy looking at – and the serenity of the two cows is quite infectious. In my quest for pictures I went into another art gallery in Crawford Street and spent an uncomfortable few minutes looking round under the baleful eye of a drunk proprietor – and I mean really drunk, full of self-pity, with red, streaming eyes and almost unable to utter a word – whilst across the table sat a young man gazing impassively at him. As I left the owner tried to get me to have a drink with him. I declined and his face dropped as if he had been bitterly hurt.
Saturday, December 25th
A rather fine, sunny morning, and for the first time in our marriage we woke on Christmas morning in our own home.
Thomas saw James across the road, and then they both saw Louise looking out of her window, and soon there was an impromptu gathering of little children comparing presents on the pavement outside our house. The quiet of the day, the sunny morning and the neighbours all talking made me feel very glad – about staying in London, and about living in Oak Village. If it doesn’t sound too pedantic, I